


Conflict Resolution

by junes_discotheque



Category: Better Call Saul (TV)
Genre: Corporal Punishment, Dom/sub, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Punishment Dynamics in D/s, Spanking, Strapping, some communication failure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-25 16:12:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3816727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junes_discotheque/pseuds/junes_discotheque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jimmy and Hamlin are in an established D/s relationship. A truly epic fight forces Hamlin to rethink his handling of Jimmy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conflict Resolution

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> MizShylock prompted: "how about Hamlin taking down/punishing Jimmy harder than he really likes to, b/c Jimmy is off in some self-hating tailspin and Hamlin knows it's what he needs?" on my tumblr like, a week and a half ago. It took awhile. *shrugs*

Hamlin leaves the office at 3:15 on Friday afternoon. His secretary gives him a raised eyebrow as he walks by, and his paralegal stops spinning in her chair long enough to ask if she can leave since he's leaving. He gives her a distracted “sure” and a half-wave. It's been a slow day, a dragging afternoon to end an utterly exhausting week, and she's had to put up with his bad mood for the bulk of it. Letting her leave an hour and forty-five minutes early is the _least_ he can do, and frankly, he should probably just order pizza for the whole firm on Monday. 

 

Right now, though, he just wants to go home, sleep until Saturday, and forget that not only is his personal life falling apart but he's letting it affect his professional life as well. Something he  _never_ does. (Ever. He's sure.) So the absolute  _last_ thing he wants to see is a yellow Suzuki Esteem parked crookedly in his driveway.

 

He pulls in alongside it, yanks his keys out of his car's ignition with more force than strictly necessary, and forces himself to take deep breaths. So Jimmy's come back to finish last night's argument. It's nothing he can't handle. Nothing he hasn't handled all fucking week. And it's either face it, what may be the last argument they ever have as... whatever they are, or Hamlin gives up and moves into a hotel for the foreseeable future.

 

_Little dramatic, aren't we?_

 

Hamlin sighs. He grabs his briefcase off the passenger seat, maneuvers gracefully out of his car, and strides into his house. He's got this. One last argument, and then...

 

And then he's done.

 

And then  _they're_ done.

 

He drops his briefcase by the table in the foyer and stops. On the table is a folded piece of paper, and on top of that is the thin, dark brown leather collar he gave Jimmy two weeks ago. His chest hurts and suddenly, he realizes he's  _not_ ready for this fight.

 

_Breathe, dammit._

 

Hamlin moves the collar off the paper and opens it. Jimmy's handwriting is usually messy, but this is nearly unreadable, as if he were shaking too hard to form letters. The paper crinkles a bit, as well—dried splatters of water rippling the page. Jimmy had been crying.

 

_I'm upstairs,_ it read,  _and I'm sorry._

 

\- - -

 

Jimmy twists his fingers together as he sits on the very edge of Hamlin's bed. His last meeting was at noon. He's been waiting in Hamlin's house since 1:45. He'd guessed Hamlin might not actually come back until late—if he were Hamlin, he'd want to do anything and everything to forget his own words—but he figures that even if it takes until midnight, he's going to stay there. Even if Hamlin decides to go to a hotel and have interns drive by every hour until Jimmy's car is gone. Even if Hamlin never comes back. He'll wait.

 

As it turns out, he doesn't have to wait as long as he thought. He hears a car pull into the driveway at 3:35, and, shortly after, he hears the front door open.

 

Jimmy takes a long, deep breath and sinks to his knees. He folds his hands at the small of his back, bows his head, and tries to keep his breathing even. He barely knows what he's doing anymore, but then, he's pretty sure he never did. He wonders if Hamlin does either, and kind of doubts it, considering he all but pushed Hamlin into this.

 

And there's something else for him to feel guilty about. If he'd never decided the best way to deal with finding out his brother thinks he's less than worthless was to get trashed on tequila shots, pound on Hamlin's door at three in the morning, and greet him with an overenthusiastic blowjob, well... He wouldn't have had the last few months, but he might still have his dignity. And if he wasn't such a  _freak_ that he gets off on Hamlin ordering him around and praising and insulting him in the same mildly stern tone, and if he hadn't let it slip that whenever he thinks of himself in  _love_ it's always paired with being  _owned_ and his ex-wife cheated on him when she found out and if he hadn't been so pathetic--

 

The door opens.

 

He gets a glimpse of Hamlin's shiny black shoes and argyle socks and pinstriped suit pants before he curls in on himself, closing his eyes and letting his hair fall in front of his face. All the pretty words he rehearsed vanish into the aether. He wishes he could skip to the end, to the part where Hamlin either forgives him or kicks him out forever, because there is no way  _I'm sorry_ is going to cut it. He's always been shit at apologizing.

 

“Jimmy,” Hamlin says. It's a request, not a command, but Jimmy raises his head anyway, taking it as one. He remembers Hamlin prefers Jimmy to keep his head up and his eyes on him, and he berates himself for forgetting. Hamlin's not angry, he doesn't think, but then he hasn't looked angry all week and Jimmy _knows_ he was pissed. Funny; everyone else on the planet, Jimmy can read like an open book. Hamlin, though? Nothing. Ever.

 

“Hi,” Jimmy says, forcing a weak smile. “Um.”

 

“You left this downstairs,” Hamlin says, holding up the collar. Jimmy swallows and forces himself not to look away. “Did you want to give it back?”

 

Jimmy shrugs. “I just thought... Well. I know I kind of... pushed you. Into this. And I've been a complete jackass.” He sighs. “I really am sorry, Howard. I don't know what's wrong with me. I keep thinking—Look, if you don't want me like this, I can stop.” He can stop.

 

Hamlin stares at him for a long moment, like he's trying to puzzle out what Jimmy just told him. Which, frankly, is way more honest than Jimmy usually gets. He blames it on exhaustion. Since Hamlin gave him the collar, he's been slowly spiraling into an increasingly panicked state, and this past week everything kind of... blew up. He's said some stuff. He's said a  _lot_ of stuff. He's surprised Hamlin didn't just dump him on Tuesday, after he tried to get Hamlin to call him everything Chuck's always thrown at him and, when Hamlin refused, questioned his manhood and insulted his technique and stormed out. 

 

It got worse from there.

 

He hasn't been this mad at himself in a  _while,_ not since he and Hamlin have been together, and he's reaching the point where the anger is gone and all that's left is a deep, bitter self-loathing. 

 

“You didn't push me into anything, Jimmy,” Hamlin says softly. He crouches down in front of Jimmy, close enough to touch him, though he keeps his hands to himself. Jimmy's not sure if he's grateful for it. “I wanted _you._ I know we didn't discuss this much, and that's on me as much as you, but even if you never told me you were submissive I would have known. I _did_ know. You're pretty transparent.” The way he says it is teasing, but not cruel, and Jimmy even manages to smile a little. “I'm not going anywhere unless you tell me, right now, that you want me out of your life. Tell me that, and walk out the door, and that will be the end.”

 

Jimmy shudders.  _No._ Fuck no. That would be  _awful._

 

_Still..._

 

“I don't deserve—”

 

“Pretty sure I'm the one who gets to decide what you deserve,” Hamlin says. He gives Jimmy a small, crooked smile. “When we first talked—and I know, it wasn't nearly enough—you mentioned punishment. Being held accountable when you screw up, or when your head goes to a place nothing else will pull it out of. I didn't want to do it and I _still_ don't, but I think you need it.” He takes a deep breath. “I think we both do.”

 

Jimmy bows his head. He can't help it. It's too much. “So does that mean you're keeping me?”

 

Hamlin huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, Charlie Hustle,” he says. That stupid nickname again. It's a nickname Jimmy hates, because it's too  _on point,_ and loves, because it's  _so_ terrible and  _so_ genuine that it's almost perfect in its awfulness.

 

\- - -

 

They go downstairs. Hamlin says he doesn't want to punish Jimmy in his bedroom, says there needs to be a clear delineation between  _sex_ and  _punishment_ and a whole bunch of other stuff that Jimmy, frankly, isn't really listening to. 

 

He's wearing the collar again. Hamlin had fastened it around his neck, then tugged lightly on the ring resting in the hollow of his throat until Jimmy leaned forward for a kiss. He never wants to take it off, wonders if his shirts come up high enough to hide it, wonders if he doesn't care if it's hidden (and he'd totally go to court like this, collar on display and all, if Hamlin told him to do so). He also thinks he might buy a leash, a matching gift for Hamlin, because this thing between them isn't broken after all and Jimmy's feeling a little high right now.

 

It might be the anticipation, too. He told Hamlin when they started this that he likes it when his partners are rough with him but that he doesn't really get off on pain. Emotional masochism, definitely. Physical, not so much. Although considering the heavy belt Hamlin pulled out of his closet, he's pretty sure this would hurt even if he  _did_ like pain.

 

He feels a little sick, to be honest.

 

Hamlin stops them behind the couch, puts one hand on Jimmy's cheek and hooks the fingers of the other through the ring on his collar. “Okay?” he asks softly. Jimmy nods. Hamlin kisses him, soft and chaste, before pulling away and handing him the belt. Jimmy turns it over, inspecting it, running his fingers over the thick, worn leather. He wonders how long Hamlin's had this belt. He wonders if he wears it regularly. Jimmy thinks he really should pay more attention to Hamlin's clothes but right now he can't remember ever seeing him in anything other than a suit or a bathrobe or nothing.

 

He hands the belt back to Hamlin and nods again. “Please,” he whispers. Hamlin takes the belt, still looking unsure. It puts Jimmy on edge a bit.

 

“This isn't a caveat,” Hamlin says. “It's not a condition of me sticking around. If you want to say no to this, we'll sit down, we'll talk—we'll do that anyway, later—but I won't leave you because you decide you don't want me to beat you.”

 

Jimmy shakes his head. No, he's not exactly looking forward to being punished, but Hamlin was right. He needs this. He'd tried to ask for it before, to have this as part of their dynamic, but Hamlin had said no and Jimmy hadn't pushed. He wonders if _he's_ the one making Hamlin do something he doesn't want to do. “Goes for me, too,” Jimmy says quietly. “Just 'cause I'm a sick freak who—”

 

Hamlin grabs at Jimmy's belt buckle. “Quiet.” His voice is low and forceful and it has Jimmy's head spinning. His arms hang uselessly by his sides as Hamlin undoes his pants and shoves them down to his ankles. His boxers follow. His dick hangs mostly limp between his thighs—he usually gets hard when Hamlin pushes him around like this, and he won't pretend like he's not a little excited about the whole situation, but he's not even close to half-hard. Small favors, he supposes.

 

He bends over the back of the couch and braces his palms on the cushions. He presses his thighs together and tries not to think about how the most sensitive parts of his ass and thighs are at the perfect height for Hamlin's belt, and he's trembling so much he can hear his brain clattering around in his skull.

 

“Breathe, Jimmy,” Hamlin murmurs. He rubs his fingers over Jimmy's ass. “I want you to count for me.”

 

“How many?”

 

Hamlin's quiet for a moment. “As many as you need.” Jimmy's not sure he likes that answer, but he also knows that one of his problems is focusing on the _end_ rather than the _now._

 

“I trust you,” he says. Hamlin's hand trembles against his skin and finally disappears. He hears Hamlin clear his throat.

 

The belt whistles through the air and Jimmy hears rather than feels the impact at first—a high _bang_ like a firework—and as he opens his mouth to give the first number, the pain hits him. It stings fiercely, and he struggles to stay still, breathing heavily until it finally fades into heat racing through his entire body. He gasps out _“One”_ and digs his fingers into the couch cushion.

 

By _“Three”_ he can feel a knot working its way up his throat, and on _“Five”_ he follows up the count of the number with _“Jesus fuck”_ and follows _“Seven”_ with a whimper and a soundless _ow, ow, ow._

 

He doesn't remember nine through twelve, though he's sure they happened, because his voice cracks on the last number, and his skin feels like it's on fire and his thoughts feel like they're fighting through syrupy fog. Hamlin's rubbing slow circles on Jimmy's back, pushing up his shirt so they're skin-on-skin, and he's babbling something about how he's _so proud._

 

Proud. Right.

 

And like that, all the self-loathing hit shim like a freight train, everything he bottled up, years and years of not being good enough crashing into him and he lets out a pathetic, wailing sob. He can see now how completely awful his behavior over the last week really was, and he's amazed Hamlin is even bothering with him after all of that. Hamlin had said he didn't want to do this. He can't imagine how Hamlin must be feeling now, forced to take this on because Jimmy can't just submit like he's supposed to.

 

He slides onto the floor, pants still around his ankles and shirt bunched awkwardly halfway up his torso. He slumps more than kneels, drops his head and kisses Hamlin's instep, resting his forehead on the arch when he's done. Unshed tears blur his vision and he can't stop thinking how fucking sorry he is.

 

Hamlin kneels down next to him and strokes a hand through Jimmy's hair. “I got you,” he says. “It's okay, Jimmy. It's over. We move forward from here.” There's a pause. Jimmy doesn't move from where he's curled up at Hamlin's feet. He feels like he can stay here forever. “You were so good, Jimmy. You took it so well. I know you're sorry, and I forgive you.”

 

Jimmy lets out a slow exhale. His lungs ache. “Thank you,” he manages at last. Thank you for punishing me. Thank you for not leaving me. Thank you for not breaking me. He wants to apologize for being such a damn crappy submissive, too, but the voices of all his past partners who released him for being too mouthy or too resistant or too difficult or too... _him_ are dropping away. He can't remember their faces anymore, either. All he can see is Hamlin's, and Hamlin looks more distressed than Jimmy feels.

 

He raises a hand and strokes his fingers down Hamlin's face. “I'm okay,” Jimmy says, and surprisingly, he means it. “It's... quiet, finally. And I'm okay.”

 

“You'll have bruises.”

 

“I like the reminder.”

 

Hamlin shakes his head. He gets a hand under Jimmy's arm and helps him stand, easing his boxers and pants up and re-buttoning him. Jimmy yelps a little at the pull on his welted skin, but quickly turns it into a cough and gives Hamlin a reassuring smile. “I meant it. Thank you,” he says. Hamlin still looks a little dubious and Jimmy sighs. “Do you want to order a pizza and talk about our feelings?”

 

It's only about half sarcastic.

 

“No pineapple.”

 

Jimmy pulls a face for about a second and then stops himself. “Yes, sir. No pineapple.” Hamlin raises an eyebrow at the honorific and Jimmy shrugs, a self-deprecating smile on his lips. “No?”

 

“Only if you want to.”

 

Jimmy's feeling a little giddy. He's pretty sure that later he'll have another huge freakout, and Hamlin will need to give him all kinds of disgustingly sweet cuddling and reassurances, but right now he's feeling _damn_ okay, and Hamlin's clearly not. Hence, pizza. And feelings talks. “Pepperoni and anchovies it is, then, sir.”

 

“I love you,” Hamlin says. Jimmy's all ready to make a quip like _no, you love the anchovies, gross,_ but Hamlin's tugging at the ring on Jimmy's collar again and looking at him with bright, serious blue eyes. “I mean it. I love you, Jimmy.”

 

Jimmy can't physically grin any wider than he is right now. He's sure of it. All this smiling is giving him a headache to rival the throbbing in his ass. “I love you too.”

 

As he calls for pizza, getting a smile and an affectionate shake of the head when he _specifically_ requests that the anchovies be placed on _one half,_ Jimmy knows they're going to be okay.


End file.
